"He doesn't want other shows," my friend told me. "He has the Ice Capades, he has the circus, hockey, and basketball. He doesn't know from anything else."

I called Wirtz's office and left a message. No return. I called again. Nothing. It was like shouting into a well. Nothing came back.

Around this time, I ran into Bob Strauss, from Texas. He was a big player in the Democratic Party. I asked him if he could help set up a meeting with Arthur Wirtz. He laughed.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"You can't just meet with a man like Wirtz," he told me.

"Well, then, how the hell am I supposed to do business with him?"

"You have to talk to Mayor Daley's people first," he told me. "You can't do anything in Chicago without the machine."

"Great, set up a meeting with Daley."

"No, no, no," said Bob, laughing. "You don't actually meet with Daley. You meet with Colonel Riley."

"Colonel Riley? Who the hell is Colonel Riley?"

"Everything in Chicago goes through Daley," he explained, "and everything that goes through Daley goes through Colonel Riley. You meet with him, work it out, then you get to meet with Wirtz."

"Work what out?"

"Just meet him."

I met Colonel Riley in the Bismarck Hotel across from City Hall. This is where the operators and aldermen hung out, where deals got done. We took a table in back. The Colonel hung his jacket on the back of his chair. It was nine in the morning, but the place was filled with newspapermen, union leaders, tough guys, and such. Riley was a skinny Irishman with a patch over his eye. We bullshitted a bit, then he said, "Okay, let's get down to it. What exactly is the nature of your business?"

I told him I wanted to cut a deal to put shows in Chicago Stadium.

"You mean you need to meet with Arthur Wirtz."

"Yeah," I said. "I guess that is what I mean."

"Okay," he said. "I'm going to get up and go the bathroom. And while I'm in the bathroom, you're going to put something in my jacket."

"What am I going to put in your jacket?" I asked.

He told me, and it wasn't two tickets to The Wiz.

"Well, I don't have that," I said.

"You have to get it," he said.

"Oh, God."

"Can you have it by lunchtime?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, "I guess so."

"Good. Come back here at lunchtime, put it in my pocket, and you will have your meeting with Arthur Wirtz."

A few days later, I go to meet Mr. Wirtz. A two o'clock appointment. He had an office in the Furniture Mart, which he owned. I gave my name to the secretary, then sat, waiting. Now and then, I asked the secretary, "How much longer?" and she smiled and said, "Any time now." Her name, as I learned later, was Gertrude Knowles, and she was fantastic, a multimillionaire with a piece of every one of Wirtz's deals. (He could be very generous.) Two o'clock became three o'clock; three o'clock became four o'clock. I was angry. "What's his problem?" I asked Ms. Knowles. "We had an appointment. I got things to do."

"Relax," she said. "He does this to everybody. If you want something from him, you have to wait."

"I am thinking of leaving," I told her.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll get you in there."

Another thirty minutes went by. I couldn't stand it. I was going wild. I stood up and said, "To hell with this, I'm out of here."

"No, don't," she said, "I'll get you in right now."

She walked over, opened the door, stuck her head inside, and said, "Jerry Weintraub has been out here waiting three hours. It is time for you to see him."

A voice boomed back: "Okay, fine, bring him in."

It was the biggest office I'd ever seen. Everything was covered in brass and wood. Behind him was a credenza filled with Steuben glass. On his desk-it was the size of an aircraft carrier-was a model of the Wirtz family yacht, the Blackhawk, and a plane. Mr. Wirtz was alone in this office, and had been all afternoon, this enormous man, signing checks, which were piled beside him. He did not greet me. He just went on signing.

"What do you want?" he asked, without looking up.

That's what he said. After all that sitting and waiting and him being in here all the time by himself, with his checks and signing pen.

"What do I want?" I said. "I'll tell you what I want. Screw you! That's what I want!"

Now he looked up, stunned, as if I had slapped him across the face.

My God, he was huge!

"Excuse me," he asked, "what did you say?"

This man was power, you have to understand that. He was the boss, the man sitting on top of a very tough town. This was Chicago. Sam Giancana was there. Tony the Ant was there. Wirtz was no gangster, of course, but he had the gangsters, and had the police, and had the firemen, and had the aldermen, and had the attorney general, and had the mayor and the governor and everything else.

"You heard me," I told him. "Screw you."

He was more surprised than angry-confused, concerned.

"Why?" he asked. "What's the matter?"

"I've been waiting out there four hours," I said. "Then, I finally get in here, and you don't even look up and say hello, how are you? You don't shake my hand, or offer me a drink of water? What kind of bullshit is that? I'm a human being, you know. I'm standing here."

And he sat back and looked at me-and this looking took longer than it should have-smiled and laughed. He stood up, walked around the desk, sat in the chair next to me, shook my hand, and said, "It is nice to meet you. I am Arthur Wirtz."

And I shook his hand and said, "Nice to meet you. I'm Jerry Weintraub."

We made a deal that very night, negotiating the terms for hours. At one point, he said, "Hey, Jerry, you look hungry," went into the little kitchen he had off his office and cooked me a steak. This big guy, this big shot, sleeves rolled up, standing over a T-bone. He loved me because I told him to go screw himself. No one had ever done that. We finished the last points at 9:00 P.M.

"Okay," he said, "now I have to get the board of directors to ratify the deal."

I was pissed. "You mean, I stayed here all night negotiating and you can't even do a deal with me? You have to wait for someone else?"

"We don't have to wait," he said. "We'll do it now."

He led me down the hall to an empty boardroom. There was a round table with ornate chairs and leather blotters and beautiful lamps with green shades, each throwing a pool of light. Arthur sat at the head of the table, struck the gavel, then said, "Meeting in session." He read the main points of our contract aloud, asked if any members of the board were opposed, any objections, waited a moment, as if expecting an answer-"Good news," he said to me, "no objections"-announced the contract ratified, then brought down the gavel, adjourning the meeting.

"I did that for a reason," he explained. "I wanted to show you something. You're going to make a lot of money. Do it yourself. Don't ever go public. Be in charge of your own destiny."

It was the beginning of a friendship that lasted decades. We made millions of dollars together. He was my mentor in the world of arenas and concerts and filling seats. He made me a king. He got me exclusive deals in hockey buildings all over the country. The Stadium in Chicago, the Olympia in Detroit, the Garden in New York, the Forum in LA-he controlled them all. We worked as partners, put on shows, filled the seats, paid the band and other expenses, paid our taxes, split the rest. He was supposed to be anti-Semitic. It was a rumor. You heard it whispered, but there was no truth to it. I loved him, and he loved me. We hung out together, vacationed together. Remember the model of the boat on his desk? Well, he gave me use of that boat-the real thing, not the model-whenever I wanted to get away.

Wirtz had a way about him. It was often hard to tell if he was joking. One night, when we had Zeppelin at the Stadium, security confiscated joints and other contraband from the kids as they came in the door. By showtime, the back room was filled with bags of dope and pills. One of the cops asked Wirtz what should be done with the stuff. Arthur thought for a moment, then said, "Well, why can't we sell it back to them as they leave?"